


creatures of habit

by GrayWithAnA



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Bisexuality, Blood, Casual Sex, Comeplay, Consensual Non-Consent, Cutting, Dom/sub Undertones, Guns, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masochism, Medical Kink, Mutual Masturbation, Needles, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Episode: s02e06 Reset, Rough Sex, Sadism, Stitches, Switching, Teasing, Under-negotiated Kink, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayWithAnA/pseuds/GrayWithAnA
Summary: The problem is that Jack is a hedonist.





	1. you’re just as tragic

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles from [“CREATURES”](https://genius.com/Shinedown-creatures-lyrics) by Shinedown.
> 
> This is really just smut, but it’s M/M smut by an actual bisexual guy, if that adds something to the experience.
> 
> Your praise and con-crit are both cheerfully solicited.
> 
> Beta’d by a non-AO3 user.

The problem is that Jack is a hedonist.

Well, for the most part, it isn’t a problem, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Far be it from Ianto to complain about Jack’s decades of experience in single-minded pursuit of new forms of pleasure. No, by and large, Ianto is quite happy about it, if frequently overwhelmed.

But sometimes Ianto doesn’t want pleasure.

Sometimes a deep, secret part of him doesn’t want Jack’s pleasure, either.

Because among many other things, Jack is a connoisseur of pleasure through pain, and he has no qualms about inflicting it on Ianto, nor surrendering to it himself—but for Jack the pleasure will always be the only point to it, and he will never understand that Ianto can want to be hurt without enjoying it.

Ianto can’t bring himself to voice the other side of it, that sometimes he wants to hurt someone and know they don’t enjoy it either, but he’s sure Jack knows.

Jack treats all of this with the same devastating tenderness as he does Ianto’s every other desire. Soon after they first started doing this…thing they can’t put a label to, when he found Ianto sobbing on the sofa, when Ianto confessed to the gaping hole in him, that Jack _wasn’t enough_, that Jack _couldn’t do this for him_, Jack just held him. Just held him, letting him cry himself out into Jack’s shoulder, then took him by the shoulders and told him firmly, “It’s okay. We can talk about this.”

And so they have an arrangement. There’s no rule on how often Ianto is allowed to do it—and he knows Jack would prefer he not think of it as being “allowed,” but he has no model to think any other way—but when he needs to, he can leave his mobile with Jack and go to the local rough-trade club for an evening. He can pick up a stranger, or let himself be picked up, and come home to Jack before dawn. Bruised and limping, often as not, but that’s nothing new for Torchwood, and for some time afterwards he’s settled by the strange sort of peace that Jack can’t give him.

He’s tried to explain it to Jack before: that it isn’t about the pain or the sex, but the capitulation to experiences just beyond what you know you can withstand; that it’s about the blind, beautiful fear of handing over trust to someone who hasn’t proved they deserve it; that, in a cosmic sense, it isn’t so different from the force that drove them all to Torchwood. Jack just looks deep into his eyes, shaking his head with a vague sort of sadness, and then seems to brush it off and launches into a lecture about safety precautions. Ianto doesn’t mind: this is how Jack says he cares.

Ianto is very safe, inasmuch as it’s possible for such an inherently unsafe proposition. He never lets a stranger drive him anywhere, and he always, always goes armed. He isn’t a complete moron: getting himself kidnapped or killed while he’s out cuckolding Jack (because that’s what it is, even if Jack doesn’t care) would be bloody humiliating for them both. Anyways, the sight of a gun at his hip invites all sorts of interesting friction from the right sort of stranger, and it turns the wrong sort away but quick.

It is on one of these nights, when Ianto is sitting at the bar, idly swirling his third drink and sidelong contemplating the jawline of the man a few seats down, that he catches a few beats of a familiar gait out of the corner of his eye. Familiar, but so out of place that it takes him precious seconds to recognize it.

_Owen_. Owen is wearing a purple shirt, leather jacket, and jeans that might as well be painted on, for all that his hips are narrow and bony, white-pale in the crescent above his belt. Owen is _here_, Owen is turning around, Owen is catching his gaze—Owen is wearing _eyeliner_.

Ianto has always known he’s going to hell, but he never thought he’d get here so soon. He finishes his drink in the few strides it takes Owen to cross the room and slide into the seat beside him.

“Why are you here, Owen?”

Owen shrugs. “Why’s anyone? I ought to ask you that.” Ianto watches Owen take a long swallow from his beer and then add, “Teaboy. Did Jack kick you out? Or is he not—” Owen’s smirk would be audible even if Ianto weren’t looking right at him, “—_satisfying_?”

Ianto wants very badly to wipe that look off Owen’s face, even though, in the strictest sense, he’s not wrong. Owen is certainly just as drunk as Ianto, but that’s cold comfort when Ianto’s traitorous, drunken mouth has already decided to answer, “We have an…arrangement.”

Owen’s smirk widens. “Arrangement,” he repeats. “So, what, you come out here, take it from a stranger, then go back to him for the romantic stuff?” He drains his drink. “That’s almost cute.”

“Almost.”

“Almost?”

“Sometimes I top.”

Owen tosses his head back and laughs out loud. “Wouldn’t’ve thought it, teaboy. Buy me a drink, then.”

“What do you—why?” Ianto stumbles. Damn, and he’d been keeping his composure so well.

“Because I’m not bloody well drunk enough to talk about sex with you yet, and it sounds like that’s what we’re doing.”

“Are we?” Ianto signals for another beer.

“Pretty sure that’s what we’re both here for, mate. And I don’t see you chatting anyone else up.”

Like with most things Owen says, there’s no good way to respond besides childish sniping. Ianto jerks his chin at the man he’d eyed before, still seated alone nearby. “Actually, I was planning to buy_ him_ a drink before you swanned in.”

Owen follows his gaze and gives a little huff. “Military. Predictable, teaboy.”

“Who’d you have gone for, then?”

He watches Owen scan the room, gaze settling somewhere beyond Ianto’s right shoulder. “There, in the red.” Ianto swivels in his seat, turning the motion into a stretch. Owen is looking at another man: tall, lean, dressed in close-fitting burgundy, a gold ring winking in his ear.

Ianto leaves his back to Owen, not entirely trusting his own voice. “You do like men, then.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’d wondered,” Ianto says. Cool hands land on his waist from behind, and Owen’s examined him often enough for Ianto to know this touch. “What are you doing, Owen?”

“I don’t know, teaboy,” Owen says mockingly. “Why’ve you been wondering if I like men, then?” His breath brushes Ianto’s ear.

“Owen,” Ianto warns.

“_Ianto_,” Owen returns. “Don’t tell me you weren’t planning to go home with someone tonight.”

“None of them are my co-workers.”

“Oh, yes, because we’re both fine ones to talk about shitting where we eat,” Owen retorts. His hands wrap around Ianto’s hips, tugging him closer. “I could see you thinking about it as soon as I caught your eye. You’re _obvious_, mate.”

A handful of fragments coalesce in Ianto’s mind all at once—soft-smudged eyeliner, a pale hand on the neck of a beer bottle, the long line of a laughing throat, _buy me a drink_. “Well, then.” Ianto turns in Owen’s grip and smiles, razor-sharp, calling Owen’s bluff. “What is it you want, exactly?”

Owen turns red. Ianto continues, “You came here to get fucked.” Owen blushes deeper. Ianto brings a thumb up, oh-so-slowly, to trace the warm colour on his cheekbone. “_You’re _obvious, Owen. You saw me, thought you’d have some fun, and then I mentioned…”

Their lips are centimetres apart, sharing the same shivering breaths. Ianto makes his decision. He presses Owen firmly back into his seat.

“Bastard,” Owen curses.

Ianto ignores him. “I’m not doing this sort of thing with you drunk. Take a half-hour to sober up and we’ll talk.”

“What sort of thing?” Owen snarls.

“Thirty minutes. No more drinks. Find me if you still want it then.” Ianto extracts a stopwatch from his jacket—never go anywhere without one—and hits the button.

“_Bastard_,” Owen breathes again as Ianto turns his back. But he pushes the last of his beer away on the bar-top.

Ianto is pleasantly surprised to notice Owen obeying him. More than a little aroused, too, if he’s honest with himself, but then he rarely is. He adds the obedience to a mental stack of puzzle pieces, ready to fit into his new profile of Owen. Then he fetches a glass of water for himself and finds a corner from which to observe; he may trust Owen with his life—and when did that happen?—but he absolutely does not trust Owen with his own sobriety.

What will Owen want? Well, he’s here, and privately Ianto thinks everyone in Torchwood must be some kind of masochist anyways, so pain is clearly on the table. Something hot and vicious twists in his stomach and clenches his hands. Yes, he wants that too.

More than the pain, though, he wants to see that flush, that glimpse of shyness, again; he wants to make Owen admit what he likes—not with words, because Owen’s never had a problem running his mouth, but with his body. There are layers of resistance, of control, of _bravado_, between Owen’s body and his mind and his stupid mouth, Ianto is sure.

He wants to rip those layers apart with his bare hands. He wants to see the sparks fly when that circuit shorts.

When did he start _wanting_ Owen so fiercely?

Ianto’s untouched water glass is collecting condensation on the table-top beside him. He downs half of it in one go, cold scarcely damping down the heat in his belly; he’s hard enough that it would surely be embarrassing were he not alone in the corner, and he has—he checks the stopwatch—eighteen minutes left.

What supplies will he need? Condoms, lubricant; they have access to each other’s medical records, but unless Owen is re-testing himself after every night out, better to be safe. Ianto doesn’t want to use restraints, though he thinks Owen will own some.

New puzzle pieces slot into place as Ianto considers this. Owen’s submissiveness tonight feels true, but unusual—rare and closely-held. Ianto can more easily imagine him, methodical, intent, tightening loops of jute around some anonymous woman’s torso. Yes, then, Owen will have restraints, but not for himself.

Well, that isn’t what Ianto wants for tonight, anyways. He wants Owen to cooperate, to do as he’s told and stay where he’s put of his own volition. Eventually. Owen wouldn’t be Owen without a healthy dose of resistance along the way, but Ianto is looking forward to breaking that, and Owen’s behaviour so far says he’s here to be broken.

Ianto will have to ask; intuition isn’t consent. But Ianto’s intuition is damn good.

He can see, as he thinks this, that Owen is having second thoughts. Owen’s eyes are jumping from his watch to his water glass to the bartender and back. He’s probably wondering if Ianto is having him on, if he’s going to go straight home and tell Jack all about this. Maybe he’s thinking about having another drink, or about leaving altogether. It wouldn’t do to interfere, though, just as it won’t do to restrain him later.

Ianto’s Machiavellian instinct for psychological conditioning should perhaps worry him more than it does.

After a few more minutes, Owen’s restlessness seems to pass into resolve—or perhaps fantasy, judging by the slow, aimless trails his fingers are making on the bar-top. Just as Ianto was hoping. He finishes his water and crosses the room to the bar, letting Owen see him return his glass before he heads for the exit. This, too, is a test: will Owen wait out the remaining ten minutes as ordered, or will he come out to make sure Ianto hasn’t left?

Either answer, he thinks, would be acceptable. Obedience, obviously, is to be encouraged. Still, he doesn’t want to punish excessive eagerness, though he’ll have to be certain Owen is actually sober. There’s an appealing vulnerability to the idea of Owen needing to reassure himself that Ianto is really there.

Sure enough, it’s less than five minutes before Owen appears. “You’re still here,” Owen says, and Ianto can’t tell if his expression is relief, surprise, or both.

“So are you,” Ianto responds, and wishes nonsensically for a cigarette, something he could gesture elegantly with, use as punctuation. “Why?”

Owen looks faintly baffled. “What do you mean, why? You told me to.”

“So I did,” Ianto agrees, moving closer. “Why did you listen? That’s a bit out of character for you, isn’t it?”

Owen steps in, mirroring him, expression fading from confusion to anger. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, mate. This your idea of a joke?”

“It’s not a joke, Owen,” Ianto says calmly. “We both want something. I need to be sure we’re on the same page about what that is.” Owen perceptibly relaxes at that.

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Owen shrugs in the direction of the seedy club they’ve just exited. “A hard shag, no strings attached.”

Ianto takes another step, properly in Owen’s space now; makes his voice smooth and bland as he asks, “How hard?”

Owen is close enough that Ianto can see him shiver, can hear the creak of his leather coat as he shifts on his feet. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips before he answers, “_Hard_.”

Ianto smiles, warm and slow. “Me too,” he murmurs. “Does ‘no strings’ mean I can’t kiss you?”

“God, no, I’m not that self-loathing,” Owen says, and immediately contradicts himself by looking around nervously. “Only, let’s wait until we’re inside somewhere, yeah?” Ianto watches him swallow and look around again. “Do you want to come back to mine?”

* * *

Owen’s flat is large, open—brick walls and wide windows. Ianto toes off his shoes and hangs his coat as they enter, too aware of Owen’s gaze following him. Owen shows no such courtesy for his own home, tossing his jacket on the sofa, shoes leaving prints in the pale carpeting.

Ianto corners Owen by the wall near the entrance. Best get right down to it, not leave Owen any time to overthink himself out of it. “Do you have a safeword, Owen?”

“Piss _off_.”

“It really ought to be something you don’t say quite so often.”

“_Piss off_, teaboy. Doubt you know how to do anything I’d safeword to.”

Owen may be quick, but Ianto has the element of surprise. He twists Owen’s wrist in his left hand, cups the back of Owen’s head in his right, and slams Owen face-first against the wall. Then he sets the muzzle of his gun in place of his right hand, square at the base of Owen’s skull. “This alright with you, then?” Owen struggles, but Ianto is taller, armed, and unafraid to press the advantage. “Safeword, Owen.”

“Fuck! Just ‘safeword,’ alright? Nice and easy.”

Ianto releases his hold, and he barely has his gun holstered again before Owen’s fist catches him in the diaphragm. He reels back a step and, doubled over and choking on his own breath, looks up into Owen’s livid face. “Don’t you _ever _point a gun at me again,” Owen hisses.

Ianto raises a hand in appeasement. “It’s a boundary,” he manages, then has to stop and gasp for a few more seconds. “I know.” Stop, gasp. “That was the point.”

Owen’s hand lands on the back of his neck, drags him forwards. As first kisses go, objectively, it leaves something to be desired, but it’s precisely what Ianto was expecting: he’s stooped over awkwardly, they’re both gulping breaths between every touch, and one of them has just punched the other. Really, it was only a question of who it would be.

Owen kisses rough and intense, but not clumsy, which Ianto appreciates. He straightens, ignoring the throb in his gut, and sets a hand on Owen’s jaw to tip his head up. This way, they’re pressed front-to-front, Owen’s hands slipping down to rest against Ianto’s chest, and Ianto can back him against the wall and keep him there.

They’re both panting when Ianto steps back. “Now,” he says, gravelly, and doesn’t miss Owen’s eyes darken at the tone. “Let’s talk about what you need.”

“Let’s not,” Owen says, and makes an earnest effort to yank Ianto back in by the lapels. Ianto stands steady, though, expecting it. Owen gives a wordless growl and shoves him back on his heels.

“We’ve established that you have boundaries,” Ianto states. “I assume there are also things you want.” Owen doesn’t answer, and Ianto sighs. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“You got that one yourself, Sherlock.”

Ianto ignores the provocation for now; the _yes_ underneath is what matters. “Do you want to suck my cock?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

“Do you want me to push you around?” Ianto telegraphs every move as he sets his hands on Owen’s waist and guides him back against the wall. Slow and gentle, but obvious in the implication. Owen just nods nonchalantly, but the lack of snark is telling enough. Oh, yes, he wants that.

Ianto leans in until their lips are practically touching, until Owen has to close his eyes and tilt his head back or go cross-eyed. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

“Yes,” Owen whispers back, breath rushing warm against Ianto’s lips. Ianto decides that honesty merits a reward and tightens his grip on Owen’s wrists as he closes the distance to kiss him. Owen doesn’t quite moan, but Ianto can feel the vibration in his chest where they touch.

He isn’t going to pause to enjoy it just yet. “Do you want me to leave marks on you?”

“Are we going to do any of this, or are you just getting off on asking?”

Ianto lets Owen see him smile. “Both, rather. Answer me.”

“None that my clothes won’t cover.” Fair enough.

“Do you want me to hit you?”

_That _was a bad guess. Owen stiffens up, shakes his head convulsively.

“Alright.” Ianto sets a calming hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Not at all, or not in a particular way?”

“At all,” Owen bites off.

“Alright,” Ianto says again. Then, since revealing boundaries is vulnerable and demands something in exchange, he adds, “I can’t do choking. Won’t give it, won’t take it.”

“Alright,” Owen repeats yet again. He smiles faintly.

Ianto doesn’t allow him too much time to think, saying in his mildest voice, “Do you want it to hurt when I fuck you?”

“What?” Owen doesn’t seem to have processed the words.

Ianto leans all the way in, his cheek brushing Owen’s, and murmurs directly into his ear. “Do you want it—” He smoothes his hands down Owen’s sides, tightens them on his hips, grip just firm enough to be suggestive, “—to _hurt_—” Owen tips his head back, panting, “—when I fuck you?”

“Fuck, _yeah_,” Owen gasps, like a surrender, and Ianto thinks Owen might want just the same thing he does. A hard shag, sure, but also someone to make him say what he needs, to force him to admit what he’s hiding.

“You know how to take care of any injuries.” It’s scarcely a question: Owen worked in A&E he has surely treated every embarrassing, improbable sexual injury a person can sustain.

For some reason, that seems to fluster Owen worse than anything. Ianto clocks the bright flush colouring Owen’s neck, the soft noise as he swallows. “I do, yeah.” This makes it real, Ianto thinks. If they’re talking about injuries, about consequences, that means they’re really going to do this. And they won’t be able to just forget about it the next day.

The idea is intoxicating. Ianto growls, “Good,” pulling back just enough to spin Owen around and shove him back against the wall, one hand on his wrist, one on the nape of his neck. It’s a convenient position, even without a gun. “Ground rules.” Owen draws breath, clearly about to protest; Ianto calmly increases the pressure on his head, grinding his cheek into the brick. “You tell me if something is wrong. If you let me do something wrong without using a safeword, we go to Jack tomorrow for a nice chat about your self-destructive behaviour.” Another indignant intake of breath. Ianto continues as though he hasn’t heard it. “No striking. No bruises anywhere clothing won’t hide.” He inhales, then leans in close. “You can resist, struggle, fight me; you can be as much of a _brat _as you want, for as long as you want to, but this doesn’t end until you behave for me.”

That stipulation is a gamble: Ianto can’t be completely certain whether Owen just wants rough, combative sex or if he genuinely wants to be made to obey; he surely wouldn’t admit it if Ianto asked directly. But oh, Ianto thinks, watching Owen’s mouth slacken, soft in profile against the wall, _oh_, was it the right bet to take. It passes quickly, Owen setting his jaw and tensing up to break Ianto’s hold, but Ianto feels in that moment like he’s seen Owen’s soul.

He lets Owen shrug him off but then grabs him by the shoulders, slamming him back into the wall before he can turn around. Owen thrashes and curses, but Ianto’s weight is enough to pin him until Ianto can corral his flailing arms, both skinny wrists in one palm. He shoves Owen’s arms up until the strain of the joints is palpable, jamming Owen’s right shoulder into the wall and forcing his head hard to the left. Blood pulses to Ianto’s groin at the distortion of pain on Owen’s face. Ianto has him pinned like an insect. He grabs Owen’s jaw with his free hand, forcing his mouth open and sliding two fingers past his lips. Owen pants and groans, muffled under his hand, trying to say something.

Ianto doesn’t care. He extracts his fingers, drags Owen’s trousers down over the curve of his ass, fingernails digging cruelly into the soft flesh. He can feel every muscle in Owen’s body tighten, can feel him fighting to get his arms free, but Ianto has all the leverage and can’t resist a cold laugh. “You know tensing up is going to make this worse, right?” he says. Sometimes the cliché villain lines are just so much _fun_.

Owen snarls, and Ianto chuckles again. He slides his hand between Owen’s legs, pausing with one finger—barely damp anymore, poor Owen—against his entrance. Owen doesn’t say a word, and Ianto presses in.

Owen hisses between his teeth, hips arching away from the pain, but Ianto keeps pushing. He can feel Owen’s muscles fluttering between instinctive tension and forced relaxation; he is intimately familiar with this sensation himself, the bright flare of friction, the transition of hot, stretched ache to slow, throbbing pleasure. He waits until Owen seems to have adjusted, then pulls out, inflicting the same again and appreciating the desperate gasp he gets in response.

“Have you never heard of foreplay, teaboy?” Owen gripes.

“We both seem to have our hands full,” Ianto answers placidly. “Maybe if I could trust you to stay where I put you, we could do something about that.”

Owen clenches his jaw and stays silent.

“No?” He shoves his finger in again and twists, making Owen’s hips jerk. For a few minutes he makes a rhythm of that: pressing, twisting, withdrawing, no time for Owen to adapt to each thrust. When Owen starts bucking back into the contact rather than trying to escape it, Ianto slips his finger all the way out. He cranks Owen’s arms a fraction higher, getting his attention, then gently positions two fingers at his entrance. Pauses, again, waiting for a protest.

Owen seems to be fighting with himself, but finally, he spits out, “Safeword. I’ll at least need a distraction if you want to do that dry.”

Ianto smiles to himself as he releases Owen’s arms. “Undress. Then hands on the wall.” He takes the opportunity to carefully remove his own waistcoat and tie, unfasten his collar, and roll his sleeves halfway up his forearms. He watches Owen kick off his shoes and trousers, appreciates the arch of his slight torso as he strips out of his shirt.

The clothing is a basic power play indeed, but classics are classics for a reason. The sight of Owen’s nude figure braced obediently against the wall, waiting and wanting, may haunt Ianto’s dreams for the rest of his life. He gets in close, wrapping an arm around Owen’s body to pull them together, and Owen sighs as Ianto trails his hand slowly down Owen’s chest and belly to grab his cock. He guides Owen’s legs farther apart with his other hand, palm gentle on the delicate skin of Owen’s inner thighs.

“You really are going to want to relax for this,” he warns.

“Oh, come off it. I have done this before,” Owen says, but he shifts his weight forward, back bowing, and a bit of the tightness goes out of his legs as he does.

Owen grunts and punches the wall when Ianto presses two fingertips into him. “Alright?” Ianto asks quietly, even though he’s sure that blow would have been directed at his face if it weren’t.

Owen nods, rolling his shoulders and breathing deep through his nose. He looks as if he’s getting ready for a fistfight; perhaps that shouldn’t be surprising. Ianto relents, giving him a few seconds to adjust, still jerking him off slow and easy in the other hand. Then he begins to push in again. Owen gives a stifled little cry, and then, when Ianto doesn’t slow, he moans, high and shocked.

Ianto forces both fingers the rest of the way in, relishing the rasp of Owen’s breathing, the tight clutch of his body. He crooks his fingers, rocking his hand back and forth, and Owen shudders and hisses through his teeth. Ianto is familiar with this too, the raw, electric sensation of dry, dragging pressure over his prostate. He repeats the movement, ever so slight and gentle, until Owen is gasping and squirming, fingers clutching against the wall as though trying to dig through the bricks.

Owen has gone soft in his hand; for all its intensity and intimacy, the feeling must barely be sexual, more sensory overload than anything. It’s tempting to continue, to see if he can bring Owen to tears like this, but Owen won’t be good for much of anything afterwards if he does. He draws his fingers halfway out, shoves them back in, then pulls out entirely in one smooth motion, making Owen’s knees buckle and sending him staggering forwards into the wall.

“Ow,” Owen pants, unnecessarily.

Ianto gives him a moment to recover, then inquires, “Condoms?” Owen flaps a hand in the direction of the bedside table. “Good. Get on your knees by the bed.” He doesn’t wait to see if Owen obeys, but goes to retrieve the proffered condoms and is pleased to find high-quality lubricant and a package of wet wipes alongside them in the drawer. He cleans his hands thoroughly, listening to Owen move behind him.

When he turns around, Owen is standing at the foot of the bed. Ianto quirks an eyebrow. “I said kneel.”

“Make me.”

“Really, Owen?” Ianto sighs. “All that was fine, but _kneeling_ is too much?” As he says it, he realizes its truth: pinned, Owen could pretend, consciously or not, that he was being forced; to kneel without protest would be to admit overtly that it’s what he wants.

Well. That means forcing him down now would defeat the point. This is what Ianto wanted, after all.

He takes a moment to strategize, then smiles and begins to undress himself. Piece by piece, carefully folding every article, slowly and deliberately but with none of the self-conscious air of a striptease. The obvious power dynamic of his clothing against Owen’s nudity was lovely, but better now to make Owen feel as though they’re on a level playing field, as though he isn’t handing anything over by doing as Ianto says.

Better still, in fact, to add an overtone of obligation to the feeling. Not enough to be properly manipulative, mind; just enough to remind Owen what he asked for. With that in mind, Ianto sits on the foot of the bed to remove his socks and boxers. Then, casually, he slides to his knees in front of Owen.

“See?” Ianto breathes. “It’s not so difficult.”

Owen seems to be at a loss for words, but his cock is already filling when Ianto takes it in hand. Ianto keeps eye contact as he strokes Owen back to hardness, until he can tear open one of the condom packets and roll it on with his mouth. Owen’s thighs tremble as Ianto runs his hands up them, pulling back and sucking languidly at the head of Owen’s cock.

“This it, then?” he murmurs, and leans in to take Owen’s length in his mouth again, letting Owen hear him moan as he does. Only partly for show, he wraps a hand around his own cock, moaning again as he pulls away to look up into Owen’s face. “This what you want?”

“Fuck you, Ianto Jones,” Owen grits out, and Ianto knows he’s won. “You know it isn’t.”

Ianto waits.

“_Fuck_ you,” Owen says again. Achingly slowly, he folds to his knees, and Ianto absolutely does not grin in triumph. He rewards Owen with a deep kiss, biting at his lower lip.

The kiss provides a neat pretence to work a hand into Owen’s hair so he can keep Owen on his knees as he stands. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Ianto says softly. He tips Owen’s face up towards him, Owen’s eyes closed, colour high on his cheeks, his chest rising and falling in quiet pants. “Answer me.”

Owen licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says shakily.

The admission, the pretty blush, they’re exactly what Ianto wanted from the night, and his cock comes fully to attention with barely another touch. He opens another condom packet and rolls it onto himself.

“Come here,” he says, a little bit gentler, sitting on the bed and pulling Owen to kneel between his legs. “You’re going to open yourself up while you suck me. Use saliva if you need it; I want you hurting, not injured.” Owen shivers visibly at that, and the obedience with which he lifts a hand to his mouth, and then reaches back to press it into himself, is enough to make Ianto’s cock twitch again.

Owen’s eyes look darker and more liquid than ever, his lips parting in an expression that might equally be pain or ecstasy. He makes a beautiful picture like that. Ianto sets one hand at the base of his own cock, one on the back of Owen’s head, and guides Owen onto him. “You do know what to do now, right?” he can’t resist murmuring, even though the first wet touch of Owen’s mouth is already threatening to make his voice shake.

Owen gives him a baleful look, but he sets to, some of that softness returning to his face as he takes the head of Ianto’s cock in his mouth, free hand coming up to replace Ianto’s on his shaft. And Ianto should have guessed from how much Owen seems to love kissing, from how intensely and thoroughly he does it, but—Owen is fantastic at this. He keeps one hand stroking up and down in time with his lips, venturing down to roll over Ianto’s balls and press against his perineum when he takes Ianto deeper in his mouth. Ianto is groaning helplessly in response almost before he knows it.

As if in collusion with Owen’s fucking _dangerous _mouth, Ianto’s brain starts serving up images of his come on Owen’s skin, all the ways he could do it: painting spurts on Owen’s face, his chest; pooling on his lower back and running down the curve of his ass; rubbing their cocks together, slick with sweat and pre-come. He has to fist his hands in the sheets to get hold of himself, and then a new image surfaces and almost undoes him all over again.

Owen pulls away when Ianto tenses up, and he may have forgotten how well Owen knows him, because Owen looks up at him and immediately says, “You make that face when you have an idea you don’t want to tell us about. Can’t say I was expecting to see it here. So, what is it?”

Ianto swallows hard, abruptly feeling as captive as Owen is. He has to rehearse this sentence, or he’ll never get it out of his mouth.

_I’m thinking about—_

“I’m thinking about coming in your mouth and watching you use it to finger yourself.”

“Fuck,” Owen says, “You’re _dirty_, teaboy.” He leans his cheek against Ianto’s thigh, and Ianto can feel the heat of him there, can feel the flutter of his breath as he whispers, “Do it.”

“What?”

“I said _do it_,” Owen repeats.

“We can’t, Owen. I’ve been with other people, so have you. It’s not safe.”

Owen sits back on his heels, and suddenly he’s Dr. Owen Harper, albeit still naked on the floor with two fingers working himself open. It’s an unsettling contrast, to say the least. “Are you using barrier protection?”

“Not with Jack, but everyone else, yes.”

“For oral sex as well?”

“Yes, but—”

“Last time you had unprotected sex with anyone besides him?”

“I, er, a year or two ago, I guess.”

“And we’re all vaccinated against just about everything and taking PrEP to boot—”

“We are?”

“Yes, what do you think those pretty blue pills I give you four times a week are? Do you _want _a new fast-mutating alien virus from every bit of space junk we touch?”*

“I guess I assumed it was something more advanced.”

“Nope. Emtricitabine-tenofovir, still the best we’ve got. Anyways, both of us have tested negative on our most recent panels, the risk of you getting anything from penetrative oral is minimal to begin with, and we’ve done plenty to manage the risk of you giving me something. So,” Owen licks his lips, free hand reaching up to roll off the condom, “Let’s do it.”

“Ah-ah,” Ianto says, grabbing him none-too-gently by the wrist. “I have your consent for this? To ejaculate in your mouth without a condom?”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Yes, you bloody well do. Get on with it.”

“No.” Ianto twists Owen’s arm back until he yelps. “I decide when, not you.” He drags Owen up and shoves him facedown onto the bed, crawling over him to speak directly in his ear. “Can I fuck you now?”

“Definitely not,” Owen says, but he doesn’t move.

“You know how to stop me.”

Ianto wraps a hand around Owen’s skinny thigh and shoves it up the bed, spreading him open with a stretch that will be agony on his hip within a few minutes. No safeword. Ianto squeezes a small amount of lubricant into one hand and strokes it over his cock, then rubs the excess around Owen’s hole, pressing in cursorily with three fingers.

Owen props up on his elbows to look back as Ianto takes himself in hand. He makes no protest when the head of Ianto’s cock pushes into him, achingly slow; he just drops his head and gasps. A fraction further and his heavy breathing shades into a half-sob that makes heat pound in Ianto’s head. Ianto keeps bearing down, deliberate, knowing that with the lubricant there will be no friction; no sting to mask the sickening, splitting ache of penetration; nothing to distract Owen from the overwhelming impulse to make it _stop_.

Owen drags a pillow up to press it to his face, arms trembling, as Ianto halts. He might be weeping; his back heaves against Ianto’s chest. “Ready?” Ianto asks, not expecting an answer, and thrusts the rest of the way all at once. Owen muffles a yell into the pillow, body arching.

At last, Ianto lets himself relax into the sensation, lets himself feel Owen’s flesh gripping infernally hot around him. He moans, hips rocking, eliciting a muted sob with each motion, and braces a hand in the sheets by Owen’s shoulder. “Oh, Owen, God,” he breathes, pulling a few centimetres out to press back in. He thinks of Owen examining him, of gentle fingers probing bleeding wounds, and moans again, helplessly. “God, you feel good.”

Owen extracts his face from the pillow. “Glad one of us thinks so,” he pants, and then exhales on a long, fractured groan as Ianto rolls his hips again, setting into a measured rhythm. Ianto was right: there are tears in Owen’s eyes, carrying grey streaks of eyeliner down to the corners of his mouth. He ducks his head and sinks his teeth into the line of Owen’s shoulder, making Owen whimper and writhe under him.

Owen adjusts quickly. After a few minutes, he’s still wincing and panting with every movement, but the controlled flex of his muscles around Ianto’s cock says it’s at least mostly intentional. Ianto can’t resist praising him, albeit incoherently; uncharacteristically, Owen doesn’t snipe about it, even when Ianto slips and murmurs that he’s _being so good for me, oh, love_. Owen just cants his hips up and rocks back onto him, clutching at the sheets and gasping for breath.

Usually, you could bend steel around Ianto’s self-control, but even he can only keep a grip on himself for so long. Sweat is running slick between his belly and Owen’s back, and he has to bite his lip and clench his fists with every thrust in order to keep the movement smooth and slow. The tautness of pain on Owen’s face is starting to relax into honest pleasure, and with it, the fierce thrill of sadism melts into a low fire at the base of Ianto’s cock, shooting stars up his spine.

He grips Owen’s hips and pulls out, earning a throaty moan in response. Not without effort, he formulates words: “Remember what I asked you for before?” Owen nods, a long shiver rolling visibly through his body. “Still alright?” Before Owen can answer, Ianto grabs him by the shoulders and rolls him over, straddling his chest.

“Yeah, _fuck_,” Owen gasps. “Ianto, please, _please_.”

Ianto figures he owes it to Owen not to mock that, and anyways, after stripping the condom off one-handed, he’s not sure he could speak another word if he tried. He jerks himself off fast and hard, legs shaking, toes curling, other hand finding Owen’s jaw to urge his mouth open, and when he comes it’s with Owen’s eyes locked on his and a guttural cry caught in his chest.

Owen brings his hand up to his mouth as soon as Ianto collapses off him, swiping trembling fingers through the mess on his tongue; then he groans, lifting his head to suck on them, spit and come running down his hand. His body spasms as he gags. It’s objectively disgusting, _filthy_. It sends a vicious little spark down to Ianto’s oversensitive cock. “Go on, want to see you,” Ianto pants. “Do it, Owen, all four fingers, go on—”

The noise Owen makes when he shoves into himself is gorgeous, loud and needy, and Ianto can’t help but kiss him for it, licking the taste of himself off Owen’s tongue. Owen rocks down onto his own fingers, breathing raw, almost sobbing. On an impulse, Ianto pushes Owen’s other hand away from his cock and curls over to take it in his mouth, sucking gently at the head, careless with his teeth, and Owen’s hips jerk up as he comes with a hoarse gasp and a long, agonized sigh.

Ianto pulls back and rests his head on Owen’s stomach, feeling Owen’s breaths heave through him as they gradually slow.

Owen slips his fingers free with a wince and a low, wet noise; Ianto fumbles over to the bedside table for the wipes and waits for Owen to clean up with the practiced tact of co-workers who have spent countless hours washing themselves of alien gunk in communal showers.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Owen says finally, and tosses a handful of wipes into the bin. “That…really wasn’t how I expected tonight to go.”

Ianto huffs in agreement. “Tell me about it.”

“Right, fuck’s sake, let’s not make this any weirder. Beer?” Owen is already on his way over to the kitchenette, a pale figure, sweat still glistening in the city lights filtering through the windows.

“Sure, why not.” Ianto thinks, perhaps deliriously, that this doesn’t feel so different from the exhausted camaraderie after an especially strange alien hunt.

Owen hands over a beer bottle, slouching onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Are you going to tell Jack?”

“No,” Ianto says immediately. Then his brain catches up to his mouth. “Yes, if he asks, but he usually doesn’t. He knows I do this; he doesn’t care to know more most of the time.”

“Why do you? Do this, I mean?” Owen asks. “You’re not really unhappy with him, are you?”

“He doesn’t understand,” Ianto says honestly. Owen’s earned it. “Don’t get me wrong: he’s great in bed, but he just wants to have fun, and he wants everyone else to have fun too. And sometimes…”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees.

They go quiet for a few minutes.

“I promise I don’t usually Retcon my lovers, but for the sake of collegial coexistence and all—do you think we ought to?” Ianto says. He’s not sure what answer he’s hoping for.

“No, Tosh’ll notice if the inventory is short.” Owen takes a swig of his beer and grins lasciviously. “Besides, I’m going to want to _remember _this for a while.” Ianto grins back and Owen leans in to kiss him, lips cool and damp, tasting like beer. Owen gives him a speculative look as they draw apart. “Round two?”

“Better not,” Ianto says, and is surprised to find himself genuinely regretful. “We’ve work in the morning.”

“Right. And we’re not going to think about any of this.”

“Right.”

“Definitely not the fact that you called me ‘love’ while you were fucking me.”

“And definitely not how you begged for me to come in your mouth.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

* * *

Of course, the very next day, Owen casually throws out a “Thanks, love,” when Ianto brings him a coffee, making Tosh and Gwen both giggle delightedly.

In retaliation, Ianto refuses to hand over Owen’s next cup of coffee until he says _please_. He knows it’s childish, sinking to Owen’s level, but the way Owen bites his lip where only Ianto can see—and the way Tosh and Gwen are now snickering at Owen’s expense—is too rewarding to resist. Besides, Owen ought to learn some manners, anyways.

For the most part, though, it’s a normal workday; the jokes even make it feel more so, just a continuation of their constant light-hearted feuding, making the sex feel like just a continuation of their friendship. It’s that, more than anything, that makes Ianto consider doing it again. He’s never gone with the same partner twice over the course of his arrangement with Jack, worried that Jack would be jealous, that Ianto himself would be somehow distracted from Jack, that he wouldn’t be able to cope with turning this from merely an unconventional arrangement into something more…avant-garde.

But he’s already friends with Owen, already sees him nearly every day, and he’s certainly in no danger of being distracted away from Jack by him. It’s not like it would change anything in their daily lives when they spend so much time together. And if Owen is willing to treat it the same, as an extension of their already deeply abnormal interpersonal relationships, then what could be the harm?

These are excuses, Ianto knows, but he can’t find a logical flaw in them. Admittedly, he isn’t looking terribly hard. Still, there’s no guarantee Owen will want to do it again, he tells himself stubbornly.

That obstinacy lasts precisely one week before Ianto finds himself back at the same bar, on the same day, at the same time. He certainly isn’t hoping for anything in particular; he just happened to have a free evening and an itch under his skin that Jack can’t scratch.

This is, of course, a filthy lie.

But it pays off when a familiar pair of cool hands settle on his waist and a familiar voice growls in his ear, “So, do you take it as hard as you give it, teaboy?”

Ianto’s bloody suicidal mouth growls back, “Harder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Is this true? Could Truvada feasibly protect against alien retroviruses? Haven’t a clue! IANAD, as they say; it’s just a convenient plot device to facilitate the filth, not to mention an excuse to bring PrEP into the safe-sex conversation explicitly.
> 
> If I ever get around to writing more of this, it’ll be hardcore, dark-as-fuck medical play, because I exist purely to insert my very worst kinks into unsuspecting, undeserving fandoms.


	2. i’ll connect the dots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this chapter centers on hardcore, dark-as-fuck medical play. If that isn’t your thing, feel free to stop here; the first chapter is a fine story on its own. If it is...well, check the tags, read with caution, and I’ll see you on the other side.
> 
> If you aren’t sure, consider checking out my story [“(give me) scars and stripes”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641974) in the TAZ fandom first. It is also about bloodplay, but was specifically written to be approachable for a more vanilla audience.

_“So, do you take it as hard as you give it, teaboy?”_

_“Harder.”_

Owen slides into the seat next to Ianto, not looking at him. His glass clicks on the bar in front of them. “You mean that?” He twirls the straw in his drink.

Ianto contemplates his answer for a long moment. “There is little I could conceivably mean more,” he finally says, arch.

“Huh,” Owen says, or maybe it’s a laugh. “You mean _that_?” He finally looks over at Ianto. There’s a spark of mischief in Owen’s eyes, a sharp little smile playing at his lips; he’s all in black, no eyeliner this time, and it’s far from difficult to work out the code there.

“I do, yes,” Ianto says.

“Huh,” Owen says again, more considering, and stirs his drink again. He pulls the straw out and absent-mindedly licks a drop off it. It’s just water, like Ianto’s, as if Ianto needed another clue that Owen came with the same idea; their glasses have scarcely had time to fog with condensation. Owen came for him.

Ianto recalls his intuition from last week, the image of Owen, _methodical, intent_, wrapping an anonymous partner in the careful forms of rope bondage; fucking her the way he kissed Ianto, rough and raw and tightly controlled; touching her afterwards with lingering, possessive hands. He doesn’t have to wonder what else Owen might want. The words arrive immediately: precision; restraint; the desire to take someone apart, break them into glittering shards, and hold the power to reform them. It’s easy to decipher, when you get right down to it, this dark side of healing, blurred with the need for control.

It’s what Ianto wants, too. It’s so very much what he wants that it might frighten him, if he thinks about it too deeply. For all Ianto’s stubborn denial, he has no actual illusions about why he’s here. He wants—needs—to know if he and Owen are truly as much a matched set as he imagines, if they fit together as well with their roles reversed.

He won’t let himself think too far ahead—what that would mean, what they might do. How Jack might feel. Enough, for now, just to know.

Ianto shakes himself free of his thoughts when Owen stands up beside him, dropping the straw on the bar and moving towards the door. Not playing coy tonight, then. Ianto tips the bartender the price of two beers in apology and follows Owen.

Neither of them speaks until they reach Owen’s car. Owen leans up against the passenger door, the dull orange of the streetlamps and his black clothing making him look even smaller than he is, a lithe slip of shadow in the night. Ianto halts in front of him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Owen asks, blunt, and Ianto has to hide a smile. How very like Owen to remember Ianto’s words, to open their negotiation exactly the same way, as though it’s a challenge.

“I don’t care.”

Owen actually seems taken aback at that. He hides it reasonably well, continuing, with a moment of hesitation that Ianto might otherwise have missed, “Do you—want to have sex at all?”

Ianto repeats, “I don’t care.”

Owen gives Ianto a long, thoughtful look, and Ianto imagines he can see a predator’s curiosity beginning to stir in Owen’s eyes. “What do you want, then?”

“Pain,” Ianto answers, not bothering to conceal the—it borders on _worship_, but he doesn’t quite want to call it that—in his tone. He adds, “Anything else is secondary.” And, yes, the predator stirs again, flexing and uncoiling; Ianto can see it in the narrowing of Owen’s eyes, the calculated flick of Owen’s gaze down his body. It’s a surgeon’s stare, detached and assessing, and Ianto does not allow himself to shiver.

Owen licks his lips. “How much?” he says, voice a shade deeper.

Ianto takes a slow, even breath, in and out. He remembers the first and only conversation he and Jack had about this, remembers shaping the same words through numb lips: “Too much.” He wets his lips, pauses long enough for it to feel intentional. “Enough that I don’t enjoy it.”

Owen stays silent, but his face does something complicated at that, head tilted, lips twisted, eyes hooded. Guilt, Ianto thinks, first and foremost. Guilt and heat and the same predatory fascination again, like a raptor fixing on an ant from twenty meters up.

Despite himself—despite what he’s just invited Owen to do—Ianto’s mouth curves into a slow smile, because nothing in Owen’s face says _incomprehension_. Oh, yes. Owen understands, and he likes it, and he hates that he likes it, but he understands. Ianto keeps talking, choosing his words carefully, feeling Owen’s gaze sharpen with every syllable. “Enough that I can’t enjoy it. I don’t want to feel anything else. I don’t want to _be_ anything else. Just…pain.”

“Anything off-limits?” Owen says at last. His eyes sweep the length of Ianto’s body again, and Ianto knows that look, has worn it often enough himself; it’s the look that says you’ve got your prey dead to rights, you’ve marked its weak points, and now it’s just a matter of taking a sight and—_bang_.

“Don’t put anything around my neck,” Ianto answers, not without effort, because now that Owen’s apparently got with the program, it’s difficult to resist rolling over and showing his belly, begging to be eviscerated.

“Marks alright? Blood?”

“Yes,” Ianto says, perhaps a bit more quickly than he intended. Owen’s lips curl up.

“Safeword?”

“Mercy,” Ianto answers automatically, and then, “You do know how this works, then.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Owen returns. “Just wasn’t scared of you. But you, Ianto Jones—”

Owen raises a hand to caress Ianto’s jaw, cup the side of his throat.

There’s something very, very sharp between Owen’s fingers, now resting dead-centre on Ianto’s carotid, and no amount of trust in Owen can suppress the first lightning impulse of fear it brings.

“—I think you’ve got enough reason to be scared of me.”

Ianto tamps down that fear, swallows experimentally. Whatever Owen is holding is sharp enough that Ianto feels it scratch him, even with that slight motion. A razor blade, maybe.

A _scalpel _blade.

“Nice touch,” Ianto manages slowly, lips scarcely moving.

Owen smiles. “Don’t think I’ll use it?”

“Will you?”

Owen doesn’t answer, just pulls his hand away, slow, and Ianto feels the sting as the blade drags a short trail into his skin, the warmth of a single drop of blood rolling down and soaking into his collar. Owen tucks the blade into a plastic cover, ignoring Ianto with great deliberateness.

When Owen looks back up, the mischief is in his eyes again, darker this time, crueller. “Well?” He pulls the car door open, gestures Ianto inside.

* * *

They follow the same ritual as before when they arrive at Owen’s flat, Ianto carefully removing shoes and jacket, Owen dropping his coat on the sofa and tracking dirt on the carpet as he goes immediately to the closet. “Gun down,” he says, half over his shoulder, and Ianto obeys.

Both of his rules broken, now.

Owen emerges with cartons of spare medical supplies, all stacked haphazardly in a cardboard box. He makes a show of ignoring Ianto again, setting a few items aside on the coffee table—Ianto can’t tell what they are, and it throws him off-balance, tipping him over the line from pleasant anticipation to gut-churning uncertainty—and returning the rest to the closet.

Leaving the supplies behind, Owen crosses to Ianto and pushes him back, slow but firm, until his shoulders hit the wall and the exposed brick catches on the fine fabric of his shirt. Owen’s eyes flicker up to Ianto’s for a second, as though to make sure he’s still there, before Owen leans in to kiss him. It’s just as controlled, as intent, as Ianto remembers, even with Owen’s teeth digging into his lip, pressing his head back into the wall.

After a long moment, Owen draws back, raising a hand in front of Ianto’s face. He’s holding something small in it, rustling in a slick paper wrapper, but Ianto will be damned if he crosses his eyes to focus on it like Owen wants him to. “Know what this is?” Owen says softly.

Ianto raises an eyebrow.

Owen raises an eyebrow right back. “‘S a needle, teaboy; don’t play dumb. Know what I’m going to do with it?”

“I imagine you’re going to stick me with it,” Ianto says dryly, or would, if his voice didn’t drop low and rough just imagining the words.

Owen has stuck him with needles before, after all, more times than either of them can count, and Ianto has long since ceased pretending to himself that it does nothing for him. The cold pain in the vulnerable crook of his elbow; the slow, deliberate drag under his skin; the silky red of flowing blood and the tiny blue-purple bruise it leaves; Owen’s casual competence at the whole thing—all of it is more appealing than it ought to be, always has been. The idea of Owen doing it now just to hurt Ianto, just because he _wants _to, as though in confirmation that Owen’s been finding it just as profoundly, unnervingly appealing this whole time—that’s almost enough to make Ianto’s knees weak.

If Owen notices Ianto’s reaction, he doesn’t comment on it, just drops his hands to start unbuttoning Ianto’s shirt. Ianto swallows, leans back against the wall, lets him.

A sharp _click _of plastic gets Ianto’s attention again, and then something cool and wet presses under his collarbone, sudden enough that he starts, the muscles in his stomach contracting. It’s high enough on his chest that he can’t see what Owen is doing, even craning his neck, but the sharp alcohol odour of disinfectant is clue enough.

The next touch makes Ianto jump even more violently, anticipating the needle, but it’s just Owen’s fingers, pinching up the skin he’s just disinfected, tugging and rolling the flesh as though Ianto is a prize farm animal to be judged.

Then comes the pain.

Owen pushes the needle through so quickly that it takes a few seconds for it to register. When it does, Ianto tips his head back, finds himself sighing in pleasure. The pain is intense—it’s clearly a larger needle than Owen uses for medicine—but it’s clean, focused, and Ianto can feel himself sinking into it already.

“Yeah?” Owen breathes, looking smug. Ianto sighs again, edging almost into a moan as Owen’s fingers trace the ridge of skin over the needle. “You like that, huh.”

“That better not be all you have,” Ianto answers, vaguely pleased with how sharply his voice comes out.

Owen meets his eyes. “I heard what you said.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he flicks the needle cap and the disinfectant swab into the bin and returns to the table of supplies, dragging it closer to Ianto. He pulls more needles out of one of the cartons and lays them out in a careful row. Next to the needles, Ianto identifies more scalpel blades, more disinfectant, a stack of gauze squares—and still more packets he doesn’t recognize.

“Are you finished testing me?” Ianto says, catching on. Owen may be quite successfully intimidating him, but Ianto doesn’t have to act it.

“Never, teaboy,” Owen answers, catching his gaze again and flashing a grin. It’s odd, this version of Owen, calm, almost cheerful in a way that Ianto has never seen him. In his element, Ianto supposes, doing what he knows without the pressure, the consequences of actual medicine. Owen interrupts that thought: “Stay on your feet. You go down, we’re done.”

Mildly ominous, that, but issuing challenges is what Owen does. Ianto nods, then stops when the pull of muscles down his neck and chest tugs at the needle, sharpening the pain for a moment. Owen steps back over to him, picks up a bottle of something and sprays it over the needle, then winks. “Sorry.”

Ianto has no time to wonder what for before the eye-watering smell of rubbing alcohol hits him, followed in short order by a burning pain so intense he has to bite his lip to keep from cursing aloud. “Was that necessary?” he manages as it passes, in something close to a normal tone.

“Yes,” Owen says shortly. He snaps on a pair of gloves and picks up a handful of swabs. This time, the disinfectant goes low enough on Ianto’s chest that he can see the ugly orange stain of it sweeping over his skin, shading most of his upper chest.

Without a break, Owen grasps the skin beneath the first needle and positions a second one, the tip scratching Ianto’s skin for a moment before Owen pushes it through. It’s slower this time, or maybe Ianto is paying closer attention: he can feel the first puncture as it enters him; then the short, near-painless slide through flesh; then the exit, more jagged, ripping. Ianto inhales when Owen moves his hand back, and the needles pull at each other as his chest expands, skin stretching between them.

The third needle, below the second, goes through even slower, and the pain is different there, more solid, more immediate, enough that Ianto has to close his eyes and breathe into it before the point tears its way back out.

The fourth needle ends up just above Ianto’s nipple; sharp and stinging, it pulls a low noise from him, a gasp barely given voice. Each insertion compounds on the others, the needles tugging at each other, turning the skin all around them hot and sensitive. Ianto is aware of every breath, every movement of his head or shoulders or arms, every minuscule postural adjustment, all of them amplified as though the needles are tiny antennae in his flesh.

Owen hums quietly and places his thumb over the last needle, pressing in. The pain intensifies, deeper and—colder, somehow, as though Ianto is feeling the contrast with the flesh around it, warmer and warmer as the coolness of the needle presses further into him. Owen releases it, and immediately grabs the end of the needle, pulling it up and away from Ianto’s chest; this time, the sensation is hot and harsh, like sunburn, like the rubbing alcohol.

Curious, Ianto looks down. The needles form a track down his chest, bright silver against the orange disinfectant; the last needle, still in Owen’s grip, is drawn grotesquely far from Ianto’s body, skin stretching farther than seems possible to accommodate the tension. They’re clearly not medical needles, more like the ones at piercing shops, thick and straight and lacking hubs. Ianto is struck with thoughts of H. R. Giger, the alien juxtaposition of metal and organic, the shapes buried in his flesh, distorting it.

Owen twists the needle smoothly, parallel to the plane of Ianto’s chest, and Ianto’s mouth opens involuntarily, silently panting. It burns even sharper, even more raw, with a tight pinch that blanches the flesh around it. Ianto wonders at what point his skin will tear, what the wound will look like; he doesn’t find out, though, because Owen lets go and the needle snaps perfectly back into its spot in the neatly spaced row, nothing but a bit of pinkness to hint it was ever out of place.

“It’s incredible how resilient human flesh is, you know?” Owen says idly, running his finger down the line of needles. He taps one of them, then flicks it, sending an electric jolt up Ianto’s spine. “Another set?”

“I’m still enjoying myself,” Ianto says in lieu of an answer.

Owen gives a noncommittal little grunt and picks up another needle.

The next four go in opposite the first four on Ianto’s chest, but pointed in the same direction, so it isn’t quite symmetrical. Ianto wouldn’t put it past Owen to have done that just to irritate him. By the end of it, Ianto is breathing harder. The pain of each needle is still intense, but far from insurmountable; altogether, though, and in quick succession, there’s a degree of randomness to it, in the way that his body twitches and tenses against the pain, intensifying it at unpredictable intervals. He has to stay focused to manage it, which is an improvement, at least.

Now Owen returns to playing with the needles, pushing and pulling at them one after another, almost in rhythm. The collage of feeling, little shocks of pain one after another, layering on top of each other, is—fascinating, really, making Ianto close his eyes and sink into it, parsing out the sensations, trying despite himself to predict them. Owen intensifies the pattern slowly and skilfully, pressing deeper, pulling harder, twisting, and Ianto’s muscles go looser and looser with every touch, every deliberate jab of pain.

Ianto opens his eyes when Owen’s hands pull away, and then has to blink sharply and steady himself, because everything is much too bright, his face buzzing slightly, his sense of balance not quite on.

Owen is looking at Ianto intently. “Still enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” Ianto answers honestly, though his lips seem to be working a bit too slowly. There’s a warm flush in his chest, his head, not unlike being the slightest bit drunk.

“You said you didn’t want to.”

“Yes,” Ianto says again, and wonders where this is going.

“Why?”

_That’s one hell of a question to be asking _now, Ianto does not say. He keeps quiet and waits for Owen to work out whatever he’s getting at.

Sure enough, Owen ignores his lack of answer, continuing right on, “Because I think I have an idea. You—” He stabs a finger towards Ianto’s chest, making Ianto flinch, but doesn’t touch. “—Ianto Jones, you like to stick to the background, don’t you?”

Ianto nods, because when you get right down to it, that’s his job description.

“‘S pretty obvious, then, isn’t it?” Owen steps closer, still not touching, just standing in Ianto’s space, the flutter of his breath washing over Ianto’s skin. “You want someone to make you the centre of attention for once. Make you _scream_. Prove you’ve still got a voice at all.”

Ianto should probably object to this—this _armchair psychology_ of Owen’s, but his mouth still doesn’t feel like it would move quite right if he tried.

Owen moves even closer. “But the thing is, teaboy,” he says, and then repeats, almost whispering, “The thing is, it doesn’t matter.” Ianto feels Owen’s inhale, and his voice comes back even softer, a hiss. “You could be screaming your bloody lungs out, every minute of every day, and no one would care. They wouldn’t even notice.” He pauses. “I’ll prove_ that_ to you.”

They stay frozen like that for a few seconds, and then Owen leans back and continues, in a forcibly normal tone, “You know, what’s really interesting about needles is how well they stimulate endorphin release. Nothing so effective.” He grins, wide. “You know what else is interesting?”

Ianto plays along. “What?”

Owen’s grin turns abruptly terrifying. “How much worse they hurt when that wears off.” Then his hands are back on Ianto’s chest, digging in, and Ianto—Ianto doesn’t recognize the sound that rips out between his teeth.

Ianto’s mistakes, he thinks, are obvious in retrospect. Then he stops thinking for just a moment, because Owen is sinking his fingers in over the needles, pinching and twisting, and the pain is _vicious_. He didn’t bother to note how much strength Owen was holding back earlier. More humiliating—he fell for the obvious stall, didn’t question Owen’s sudden conversational bent, didn’t pay enough attention to his own body’s responses to realize what Owen was waiting for.

Now Owen is using all his strength, forcing Ianto back against the wall with his weight, and surely Owen is being careful, surely the needles aren’t actually piercing Ianto’s chest wall, but it feels as though they might sink into his lungs, stab all the way into his heart. The pain is icy, like the cold clutch of fear made physically manifest. Ianto can feel his throat vibrating with an awful, choked-off groan, but it’s barely audible over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“Come on,” Owen murmurs, though Ianto wouldn’t hear him any more clearly if he shouted. Owen braces one hand over Ianto’s collarbone, pressing flat over the two upper needles, and then grips the lowest needle and twists again, ninety degrees, and—

Ianto realizes what Owen is about to do just an instant in advance and can only hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut and wait as the needle digs back in, _under _the one above, and back out. It tears the whole way through, raw and cruel, and Ianto bites his tongue, clenches his fists, and finally, _finally _exhales on a long, scraping gasp when it’s over.

Owen’s hand lands on Ianto’s cheek, almost but not quite a slap. “Don’t hold your breath. Exhale through it. You’ll last longer.”

And somehow that’s what does it: the confirmation that Owen wants to keep this going, absolutely indifferent to the pain he’s inflicting, and Ianto has to keep up—it will be Ianto’s fault if he doesn’t keep up. Owen’s hands move to the other side of Ianto’s chest, and Ianto doesn’t resist, can’t even tense up, just takes a hitching breath when Owen twists the needle and then sobs an exhale, as ordered, when the tip pierces through.

“Good,” Owen says simply. He eases off, and Ianto dares to look down and watch Owen’s hands wander over the knots of flesh secured by the twisted needles. The sensitivity is intense, the feeling nothing like erotic, but it presses the same buttons somehow, making Ianto shudder, making his pulse race. “Still enjoying yourself?” Owen asks again.

Ianto doesn’t answer. He can’t.

“Hm,” Owen says. Ianto watches him curl his fingers around the grotesque assemblages of metal and skin, under the protruding ends of the needles, and _pull_.

If Ianto thought Owen was holding back before, that had nothing on this; the pain is blinding, seething, flaying, like sandpaper on exposed nerves. Ianto can’t stifle the first rough noise he makes in response, and then Owen pulls harder, yanks, dragging Ianto’s weight forwards and making the needles grate on each other under his skin.

Ianto screams, short and harsh, wheezing. Owen pulls harder again, just for a moment, and Ianto hears his own breath—detached, long beyond conscious control—accelerate into panicked, animal hyperventilation.

At some point, Owen must let go. When the pain recedes enough to fill somewhat less than the entirety of his mind, Ianto falls back against the wall, panting. Owen’s hands are steady on his shoulders. Somehow, the skin of Ianto’s chest still looks intact, even where the pain is so fresh that he expects to see gaping, rending wounds. He breathes in. Breathes out. The pain is ignorable, as though he exists somewhere apart from it, another universe, as though he’s dissolved in it and spilled through the cracks.

Ianto may be going mad, but he clings to a last thread of consciousness that says this is exactly the kind of mad he was looking for.

Owen guides Ianto away from the wall and down onto the bed. There’s a plastic sheet there, and Owen pushes him down flat on it, standing between his legs. Owen’s fingers trace the shapes of the needles in Ianto’s flesh again, sure as a sculptor caressing his work; the look in his eyes is naked avarice.

The hot spill of blood down Ianto’s side when Owen pulls the first needle out is shocking, but not as shocking as the sheer sensation of it, the needle sliding slick and painless through unresisting flesh. Ianto shivers. When Owen removes the second needle, Ianto feels his cock start to fill, and shivers again, harder.

Owen looks down at him and flashes half a smile, nudging his knee against Ianto’s groin as he pulls out the third needle, then four, five, six in quick succession. Blood rolls in rivulets over Ianto’s ribcage, almost ticklish, and the jump from agonizing pain to this strange, delicate sensuality is baffling, incomprehensible.

There are two needles left in Ianto’s chest, the topmost of each row, right under his collarbones. He can feel them there, tugging at the edge of his senses; can imagine how they must look, stark silver against the scarlet mess of his skin.

Above Ianto, Owen snaps another scalpel blade onto a handle and leans over, bracing himself on the bed with one hand. “Stay still,” he warns, suddenly heavy with the seriousness that Ianto usually associates with Owen at work. He touches the scalpel to Ianto’s skin directly on top of one of the needles, too light even to scratch; then, in one quick motion, he cuts down along the length of the needle.

It’s not easy. The words get stuck, running stupidly in circles in Ianto’s brain. It’s not _easy _to cut someone. He knows this, of course: films show one smooth swipe and an immediate welling of blood, but that’s not reality. Meat is tough, irregular, _not easy_ to cut, but it’s still blasphemous to feel it like this, feel the blade drag through his skin, feel the little catches of hair follicles and forgotten scars magnified under its edge.

The pain is something else entirely, like the sandpaper-grating agony of the needles focused down into one precise line, and Ianto would scream again but every muscle is locked in place with the effort of staying still. All he can do is force out a hissing exhale and try not to faint.

Owen picks the scalpel up and immediately sets it down for a second stroke, deepening the wound, and this time, the pain—the blade on flesh already laid open—is bad enough that Ianto does grey out for a moment. He comes to when the scalpel hits the needle and drags down the length of it, and the needle comes free, leaving Ianto struggling for breath. A thick tongue of blood makes its way down his side.

Owen’s fingers land on Ianto’s chest, tracing the smooth outline of the wound, the raw cusp where flesh and blood meet. The feeling is indescribable; it makes Ianto shudder and pant helplessly, erection already returning in spite of the pain.

Owen huffs a little laugh and presses his leg harder into Ianto’s groin. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, but he sounds pleased. His fingers dip into the wound where it gapes open, brushing over the wet curve of either side of it.

Undiluted heat rushes through Ianto’s veins at the touch, so sudden and intense that he thinks for a moment he might come just like that. “Owen,” he breathes.

“Want something?” Owen says, and presses the slightest bit harder—_rubs_, gently, at the inside of the wound. The pain is electric, sharp and sweet, and Ianto knows his mouth is hanging open, breath rasping in his throat. “Go on,” Owen adds, glancing down Ianto’s body.

Ianto reaches for his fly, fumbling when the movement of the muscles in his chest pulls at the wound. His palms are damp, not quite enough to make jacking off comfortable, but it doesn’t matter. Owen’s fingers are still playing at the edges of the cut, occasionally slipping inside to worry at the raw flesh, and Ianto lets himself fantasize that the wound is deeper, deep enough for Owen to slide a finger all the way inside; lets himself imagine what it would feel like, the slick sensation of the needle being pulled out amplified ten times over, all-consuming, so much more intense than sex.

“_Fuck_,” Owen says, low. His hand shifts on Ianto’s chest, thumb working into the wound, while the other, still gloved, goes to open his own fly. He doesn’t look up, focused on—on the bloody wreck of Ianto’s body as he strokes himself, streaks of Ianto’s blood painting his cock, and that’s all it takes to tip Ianto into orgasm, shaking and spasming against Owen’s hand.

Owen comes a few moments later with a strangled groan, then immediately pushes back and stands up. Ianto hears him snap his gloves off, zip his trousers, pull on a new set of gloves; then he reappears, holding another scalpel blade and raising an eyebrow.

“_Mercy_, Owen, god,” Ianto chokes out, still trying to catch his breath.

Owen looks _unbelievably _smug. “Thought so.” He drops the blade on the table and pulls the last needle out. Ianto drifts for a few minutes as Owen cleans him off, alternating sprays of cool water with swipes of a gauze pad, and applies dressings to the sluggishly-bleeding needle marks.

Eventually, Owen taps Ianto’s sternum, getting his attention. “This’ll need either sutures or butterfly closures, and if I do the latter, I’ll probably just have to stitch you up in a day or two anyways. Alright?”

“Go ahead,” Ianto answers. The bite of the tiny suture needle is nothing by comparison, even though the steady pull of the thread through his skin does make his cock twitch with renewed interest.

Finally, Owen ties off the suture with a few sharp tugs, clips it short, and guides Ianto up to sitting. And—

“Was that _necessary_?” Ianto grouses as he looks down. All the blood that ran off his chest is now drying into the tails of his shirt.

“Your wardrobe’s had worse,” Owen says, waving a hand. He strips off yet another pair of gloves and sweeps a whole mountain of bloodstained gauze and wrappers into the bin.

“My _wardrobe_.” Ianto narrows his eyes. “This was your whole plan, just to ruin my clothing.”

Owen grins and shrugs. “It could use some ruining.” He licks his lips, and Ianto notes a shift in his posture, a sudden tension. “Do you, ah—do you want to keep doing this?”

Ianto considers making Owen wait, making him doubt, but deems that too cruel. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do.” He inhales, purposefully dismissing the same sense of tension as it rises in his own body. “But I have to talk to Jack. This isn’t our arrangement.”

“_Arrangement_,” Owen mutters, not without scorn, but he nods.

Ianto takes a breath. “Shall I talk to him, then?”

“Yeah.” Owen pauses. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

* * *

“How’s Owen?” Jack asks, half-asleep, as Ianto crawls back into bed.

Ianto freezes.

Jack laughs, sounding more awake, and pats Ianto’s thigh. “Relax. I’m not mad.”

“You knew?” Ianto hates how plaintive it sounds.

“Of course I did. Seriously, relax. Better him than a stranger.” Jack waits a second, then adds, “Are you going to keep seeing each other?”

“Yes,” Ianto admits quietly. “I was going to talk to you about it.”

Even in the dark, Ianto can tell Jack is rolling his eyes. “I can smell the guilt from here. _Relax_, Ianto. You can tell me about it in the morning.” Jack wraps an arm around Ianto’s torso, and Ianto feels him pause when his hand finds the dressings on Ianto’s chest. “Huh,” Jack says, and pulls Ianto back against his body, warm and solid. “Definitely tell me about it in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it this far! You’re my kind of person.
> 
> Needless to say, these two are not models of good negotiation and consent practices. I’m pawning a lot off on their existing trust and the fact that Owen is literally Ianto’s doctor, but even so, this is not how a scene like this happens in real life.
> 
> Comments fuel more filth and nonsense like this. Feed me.


End file.
